My books
I love my books. I love all my books. I do not organize them on my bookshelf at all – is that weird, is that not kosher? I'm sitting on my bed right now, staring at the four shelves in front of me of books books books, some purchased (Enter Ghost by Isabella Hammad, All the Names by José Saramago), some given (Fifteen Dogs by André Alexis, Mythologies by Roland Barthes), some short (The Great Easter by Jacques Besse), some big enough to kill someone with (Solenoid by Mircea Cǎrtǎrescu and, of course, Infinite Jest). Right now I am reading American Genius, a Comedy by Lynne Tillman after quite a self-enforced stint of plowing through depressing Eastern European novel after depressing Eastern European novel. I'm hoping to have the energy to dive back into the Krasnahorkai that I had to drop a while back due to a (to me, embarrassing) lack of energy and time, but we'll see.
When I was in California last week I'd tuck into the bed with the Tillman and hope the cat would want to come hang out (he didn't) and stare at the books lining the shelves on the walls. A very odd, random assortment – I recall someone sending me a massive cardboard box of things to read during my convalescence, many of which are still there – and one I've picked through slowly over the years. Last year I read Vineland and Moravagine, both very good, both of which I'd been unaware I even had. People ask why I go home when the energy there is, dare I say it, rather cursed, and part of the answer is that the cursédness is of a type in which I'm left alone to, well, read. So I fly home and read whatever the hell is left over on those old shelves.
That's the way to do it for me, I suppose, that's the joy of not organizing or planning what I'm going read: it's all based on a gut feeling, a sort of personal "vibe check." What will I read when I'm done with the Tillman? I'm staring now once again at my shelf, looking, browsing: there's Ferdydurke, there's Baudrillard's America, there's The Bluest Eye – that's one's likely, I've been eyeing it for a while... or maybe A Philosophy of Walking... who knows? I haven't been reading as much as I'd like to this year due to the fact that I started graduate school in the autumn, and despite school going well, it makes me kind of sad. There is something so nice about being the one who chooses what I read, deciding if I want to toss it aside or keep going, lying in bed wrapped up in my blankets like a burrito and plowing through half a book in a day. And then going "hmm now which one?" and picking something new at random, reading it, doing it all again.
Probably I'll never organize my books. Frankly, it just feels boring and pointless. Alphabetical – sure, whatever. Genre? I truly do not care enough. Spine color? Who the fuck do you think I am? No, they sit in a massive jumble on the bookshelf an old roommate gave me for free, I have to dig through things sometimes if I'm on the search for a particular book, and I refuse to make things simpler or more efficient. Beauty in the chaos, or something. I don't know. At any rate, I have some homework to wrap up and then I plan to tuck into my nice cosy bed sheets and read until I faceplant right into my book with the light on, so I'll cut this off here. Maybe I will update you with what I read next. But I have to see.